


the shorter goodbye

by beardsley



Category: Community
Genre: Detective Noir, F/F, Paintball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/pseuds/beardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of Britta distinctly thought this was getting too into character, but the detective in her just laughed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shorter goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: Annie/Britta, hurt/comfort.

The rain was pouring down outside like all the deities Britta didn't believe in had looked down on Greendale and wept. She woke up to a splitting headache and a pain in her shoulder. She had a vague memory of being thrown across a room by a mobster. It might've been Leonard. Britta wasn't sure. Mobsters, cops, dangerous dames, glee club. They were all the same. Kill or be killed.

'You're fine,' came Annie's voice. When Britta opened her eyes, it was to Annie bent over her, bandaging her shoulder. She wore blue velvet, the dress leaving little to the imagination, and her lips were painted a bloody red. Her hair was undone, falling over her face like a Venetian blind, except made of hair. Blocking the gritty orange light from the bare bulb of the utility closet, she was like a Hollywood starlet. Pale. Untouchable. Damaged.

Britta realised she was stripped to her waist. Her shirt, suit jacket and trench coat hung on a mop in the corner. She still had her fedora on. Good. When she tried moving her shoulder, the pain made her wince. Annie put her hands on her arms.

'They left you to die,' she said, looking away. 'I dragged you here before the bulls could nail you.'

'Model UN,' Britta spat. 'Dumb mugs. If I had my roscoe with me I'd've drilled them 'till they pissed lead. I mean paint. They hired me as a private eye. I uncovered some dark secrets. Dark like these streets, this awful city, gutters full of blood and the vermin drowning in it, all the whores and air-conditioning repairmen looking up and shouting...'

'You have a slight concussion.'

Britta whispered, 'No.' She shook her head. Abed's non-nerdy comic books were getting to her. Ah, Abed. Cut down in the cafeteria; croaked in her arms after the dean croaked in his. No point dwelling on the fallen friends. Britta looked around. 'You alone?'

'In this town?' Annie curved her mouth in a bitter half-smile. 'It's every woman for herself.'

'You helped me,' Britta pointed out. She held out her hand to cup Annie's cheek, and watched as her eyes slid half-shut. Affection wasn't something you could share freely these days. Well. Today. Possibly tomorrow, if the game lasted as long as last year.

'Maybe I wanted to see a spark of good light up the grey concrete of misery,' Annie whispered. 'Maybe I've seen too many self-serving gonifs and scoundrels turn on each other. Or maybe I wanted you at your most vulnerable to pick...you...off.'

The sharp edge of a gun poked Britta under the ribs. She smiled. She hadn't even felt Annie reach for the heater, captivated by her soft mouth and softer eyes. Britta wrapped her fingers around the barrel and held it to her own heart, like an unspoken double dog dare. When Annie let go, Britta threw the roscoe in the corner. She'd trade something for slugs later.

'You're a bad liar, kid,' she said. 'Only true part of that speech was that you want me. To take care of. Little Annie English Patient.'

'People I want get paint on them,' said Annie, holding Britta's eye. She tilted her chin up, proud to the last. Not even paintball could take that away from her. 'Nothing patienty 'bout that. Bad Luck Annie, that's what they call me. I'm trouble.'

Britta slid her hand down, thumb brushing over Annie's lower lip. 'Today's your lucky day, then. 'Cause trouble is my business.'

A part of Britta distinctly thought this was getting too into character, but the detective in her just laughed. This wasn't a fundraiser or a crazy stalker's fever dream about cheerleaders. This was paintball, the dirtiest game in town, the only game worth playing. She kissed Annie with all the harsh, hopeless...something...she was running out of metaphors, like a wind-up ballerina running out of gas. But she knew it was all right when Annie kissed her back, her hands on Britta's arms sliding down, then up again, cupping her shoulders. If they died today, Britta didn't want to go gently. She licked Annie's mouth open and swallowed her soft moan. Her head was killing her, so she let herself be pushed to lie flat on her back, wincing when her bruised shoulder fit the floor.

Annie's mouth slid down her throat, one hot point of contact. Britta wrapped her legs around Annie's waist. She gasped when Annie pressed one hand between her legs. The rain outside was a dull roar. There were dark spots dancing before her eyes.

'I think I'm gonna pass out now,' she said.

'Wait, _what_?' Annie was suddenly right there, eyes wide, nothing of the femme fatale left in her expression. 'Oh my god, Britta, you have to stay awake! I can totally keep you up! We can just wait out the game here, just don't pass out, I really don't want to have to call Shirley to help me get you to —'

Britta covered Annie's mouth with her hand and smiled. Annie's eyes were huge and worried, but it was okay, she was a private dick, private dicks always died like that: lonely and helpless. At least she had a chance to die in Annie's arms.

'Forget it, Jake,' she said, drifting away but still dedicated to quoting an awesome movie, 'it's paintball.'


End file.
